


Arcadia

by andreaphobia



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Canon Compliant, Coping, Future Fic, M/M, PTSD, Post War, Veterans, after the war, blunted affect, finding meaning in life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:15:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1394092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andreaphobia/pseuds/andreaphobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eren loses his way, then finds it again... with a little help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arcadia

**Author's Note:**

> Birthday giftfic for Amei, finished almost two (!) weeks early. Incredible. This may be the first time in my life I have met a deadline.
> 
> As always, a big thank you to [skyfireflies](http://http://archiveofourown.org/users/skyfireflies) for emotional support and for catching stupid typos (and for ghostwriting).

 

 

 _We shall not cease from exploration_  
_And the end of all our exploring_  
_Will be to arrive where we started_  
_And know the place for the first time._  
— T. S. Eliot

 

 

When the war ends, when the last titan is eradicated, when humanity is finally free—the first thing they do is throw a party. Not just  _any_  party, all right—think the biggest damn party anyone’s ever seen on this side of Wall Rose. A party to end all parties. There’s even a parade, of sorts, though privately Eren thinks “parade” is kinda overselling the experience. At any rate, they all form up and go riding through the inner districts with Erwin leading the way, basking in the reflected glory of their victory. All dressed up, and no titans to slay; that’s the scouting legion now.

Come to think of it, that’s basically how it’s gonna be from now on. It’s a weird thought for someone who’s built the bulk of his life around titans and the extermination of them. Not weird like in a bad way, though, just… like, in the way when you’ve accomplished some long-standing life objective, and suddenly you find yourself free to do pretty much whatever you choose.

Anyway. All the citizens set aside what they’re doing, of course, and come thronging out to watch the procession. (Probably the more astute merchants are making a killing with festival food.) It’s a bit of a family event, too; he can see kids sitting on their dads’ shoulders, drooling around pudgy hands stuffed into their mouths and watching the proceedings with a kind of gormless curiosity.

Wasn’t so long ago that he was one of those eager faces himself, peering over the assembled crowd and trying desperately to catch a glimpse of his heroes. (It’s weird being on the other side of  _that_ , too, but he’ll take being the guy who saved the world over being the guy who failed to do the same, anyday.)

‘course, Jean isn’t happy unless he’s got something to complain about. “Big bloody waste of resources,” he grunts, out of the side of his mouth, riding in formation with the rest of them.

Armin, ever watchful, steps in before Eren can start the argument Jean is looking for.

“They’ve had precious little to celebrate for nearly ten years now,” he tells Jean, gently. “Don’t begrudge them a little happiness.”

Eren doesn’t really know where he stands on that. On the one hand, they’ve really fucking done it—they’ve done it at last. The scouting legion, victors of the great war, have reclaimed the world and the freedom that is their birthright. All the vast and myriad lands beyond the walls are theirs for the taking now; the fields of ice and sand, the fiery mountaintops, the deepest darkest oceans. Humanity is taking its first steps in the dawn of a new day, and he’s lucky enough to still be around to witness it.

By all rights, he ought to be happy. Hell, he should be fucking _ecstatic_. Every morning he oughta leap out of bed with a smile on his face and a spring in his step, and maybe if he burst into song in the middle of his chores the other soldiers would come in and harmonize, with a matching dance routine. Because shit, isn’t this what he’s been working for all his life? Why  _shouldn’t_  he be happy?

So really, he’s positive that that’s how it’s gonna be. Any second now it’ll be like someone has flipped a switch inside him; the floodgates will open, and all the feelings that he ought to be having at this point in time will come rushing right out.

Any day now.

In the meantime, he spends his days watching people make their way back into the abandoned towns and villages of Wall Maria, to pick up the pieces of lives left behind so many years ago. All day long the sound of sawing and hammering fills the streets. Men shuffle about hauling lumber, or else kneel by the sides of buildings, patching up the holes in them with brick and mortar. One time, he helps a young couple hang a door in its frame (because that’s what they’re supposed to be doing, isn’t it? Helping?). He almost escapes without incident, too, but unfortunately a neighbor recognizes him as he’s leaving, which is how he ends up staying for dinner as a thank you for saving the world.

But really, it’s not so bad; it’s something to do, and the physical labor in particular is a relief because it keeps him from thinking too deeply about anything. He’s been doing a lot of thinking, ever since the war ended, but his thoughts just go in circles, chasing each other’s tails like a bunch of retarded dogs. There’s only so long you can chew on your own worries before you get tired of them, and he’s had enough of chewing for a lifetime.

Officially speaking, the scouting legion’s heading up the recovery efforts, and that means every able-bodied soldier on duty is supposed to pitch in and do their part. Unofficially speaking, war heroes don’t really have to do anything they don’t feel like doing. The pay in the army ain’t great, but with the war over they do have a surplus of vacation days, and if there’s anything the hope of humanity deserves after the war, it’s a goddamn vacation.

Barely a month has gone by, but Shiganshina’s shaping up nicely. It’s not the city he grew up in, of course, not even close, but it’s getting there. Construction teams have already started work on some of the bridges which span the central river, and the marketplace does bustling business in the afternoons. There’s even fuckin’  _children_  running through the streets, laughing, playing tag or whatever it is kids play these days without a care in the world. People have brought life back into his hometown—which is a good thing, because a town isn’t much of one without some people in it.

That’s another one of those things that he’s pretty sure ought to make him happy, when he thinks about it properly. He sits himself down on the edge of the crumbling river wall, dangling his feet over the edge, and gropes for the appropriate feeling.

Nope, nothing yet, but maybe someday. He tosses a few pebbles into the thin stream which snakes along at the bottom of the canal, and watches the world pass him by.

Armin finds him sometime around noon, right about when he’d be getting hungry enough to get up and go hunt down some sustenance. He waves as he draws near, and Eren gives him a nod; totally casual, and not at all like he’s spent half the morning trying to figure out what to do about the weird gaping hole in the middle of his chest.

“Hey, Eren,” he says, plopping down beside Eren with a smile. “Want something to do?”

Eren squints, trying to imagine what that might be.

“If this is about shaking more hands, you can tell the captain I’m not interested,” he says, and grins as he thinks of Levi. For humanity’s strongest soldier, probably a day hasn’t gone by without somebody important hounding him for something or other.

In that sense, Eren’s kinda glad he never ended up being promoted; it means he never got slapped with any annoying responsibilities, like having to attend meetings or think about things.

Still, though, it’s not like they aren’t all heroes by now. Armin’s the brilliant tactician, whose strategies (it was said), when coupled with Erwin’s command and experience, had won them the war. Mikasa, the quintessential titan slayer, strong as a hundred soldiers and the bane of anything over two meters tall. Jean, the born leader, who rose through the ranks under his own steam to attain the rank of captain; the leader of his own crack squad, usually tasked with the mission-critical objective of keeping Eren Jaeger alive. And Eren…

Well, as the last light of hope for humanity, he’s a hero in his own right, too. (Right?)

“Not the captain’s idea,” Armin tells him cheerfully. “Mine.”

“Yeah?” That sounds more promising, at least. “Well, what is it?”

Armin doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studies Eren over fingers which are steepled neatly in front of his face. He’s wearing a solemn, schoolteacherly expression which make Eren feel slightly disconcerted, like he’s one of Hanji’s research subjects.

Then Armin sighs, setting his hands down.

“Do you remember,” he says, “the promise we made, before all of this?”

“Like I’d forget,” Eren snorts. “To go outside the walls, right? But you—” He stops, momentarily perplexed. “I thought you couldn’t leave yet. Don’t you have things to do?” He’s vague, however, on what that entails, and expresses as much in a couple of dubious hand motions, as though grasping at the air might help him narrow down the intricacies of Armin’s various responsibilities. “You know, like… stuff for command, and stuff?”

He’s not exactly articulate, but Armin is smart, so he understands. “That is unfortunately true,” he says, straightening up. “But that doesn’t mean that  _you_  can’t go.” Because Eren is busy gawking at him silently, he takes it as an opportunity to ramp up his sales pitch. “The scouting legion has the most experience going outside the walls, you see, so we’ve been planning it for a while. And there’s no reason why everyone should have to wait on one person’s schedule to free up. Particularly,” he adds, dryly, “if that person wouldn’t be of much use in a survival situation.”

“But—“ Eren remains stuck on this point, “—then you won’t get to go.”

“So?” Armin smiles. “I’ll come later. We have the leisure of waiting, now.” He leans back a little, resting his palms on the sandy ground to support himself. “Besides, someone’s got to lead the way. It won’t just be a vacation, you know. We’ll need maps… trails we can use… things like that. Landmarks.” He adopts a careless tone. “Think of it as reconnaissance, if you prefer.”

 _Recon_. The term is military, familiar; comforting in that respect. He can’t say that the idea of it doesn’t hold some appeal.

… Which is, come to think of it, probably exactly what Armin wants. Eren sighs, and puts his head in his hands theatrically.

“Is this just a ploy to get me out of your hair?” he asks, in a wounded voice.

Armin has the decency to sound a little sheepish when he answers. “I think… that all of us need something to make us feel useful,” he says, diplomatically. “Don’t you agree?”

Eren, being contrary by nature, doesn’t. “Not Mikasa,” he objects, grouchily. “Or Jean.” He feels particularly justified in calling the both of them out by name, because every time he runs into them at HQ, they’re bustling about engaged in animated conversation with various underlings or else barking out orders in booming voices of command.

At least Mikasa makes the time to come and find him at the end of every work day, because, well, she’s Mikasa. But he doesn’t think he’s had a moment to speak with Jean, damn near since the war ended.

Not that he desperately  _wants_  to, or anything. It’s just—

“Yes, well,” Armin replies. He doesn’t sound testy, exactly; more… tolerant, like he’s quite used to dealing with Eren’s little tantrums, thank you very much. “Apart from them, I meant.”

Eren, bearer of burdens too large for a single person, heaves another sigh. “I’ll think about it,” he mumbles. Then a thought strikes him, and he slants his gaze back in Armin’s direction. “Do I get to pick who goes with me?”

He doesn’t notice at the time, but there’s something sly about Armin’s smile as he says, “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

✽

_Out here on the front, the supply chains are long, stretched just about to their limits. Actually he’s kind of amazed they can even get their hands on food at all, this close to Maria. That’s the logistics team for you, though; working tiny miracles every day._

_The war has been going on for just about two weeks, now, with no end in sight. That’s only the official date, though. Looking at it another way, humanity’s been in a constant state of war for almost a century. It was just a different kind of war. Skirmishes with titans on expeditions are worlds apart from full-on warfare, and that difference is what’s choking the life out of each and every one of them._

_There’s enough food to go round to keep their bellies full, more or less, but the fare’s nothing to write home about. Today’s main course is thin gruel, with soggy boiled vegetables and pale chunks of stuff that might be meat floating in it. At lunch they gather around the pot bubbling over the firepit, and the mess sergeant doles out servings, one bowl each—no more, no less._

_Cradling his rations jealously, Eren sets himself down by the fire. He spoons down a mouthful, swallows, and then shudders._

_“Tastes great,” he announces, wryly, to the rest of the circle._

_“If you don’t want to finish it, please allow me to help,” Sasha tells him, with the gamely intent look of a dog that’s slowly starving to death. Eren grins at her._

_“You know what I really miss?” he says. “Fresh… baked… bread.” He smacks his lips. “Soft and white on the inside; a crisp, hard crust with real crunch to it…”_

_Sasha gives a moan like a dying animal and clutches at her chest. “Don’t. Don’t even, Eren. You’re a cruel, cruel man.”_

_Armin, sitting on Eren’s other side, stares dubiously at the contents of his spoon for a moment before taking a careful sip. He grimaces._

_“It… could use some salt,” he says. Then, more brightly, “We’ll have plenty of that when we get to the ocean, though.”_

_“Oh, not this shit again,” Jean mutters._

_Unfortunately, Eren hears him. The other veterans, sensing the change in the atmosphere, begin wolfing down their food as fast as possible._

_“What’s your damn problem, Kirschtein?” he demands, brandishing his spoon (and nearly taking out Connie’s eye in the process). “If you have something to say, maybe you should speak up?”_

_Jean stares wearily at him, across the fire. For a moment, Eren is struck by just how tired he looks in the flickering firelight; there are lines under his eyes, violet shadows pooling in the hollows of his cheeks. Eren wonders if they’re all starting to look like that, a little. But, well, no time to worry about appearances, out on the warfront (unless you happen to be captain Levi, who is for some reason obsessed with the whiteness of his cravat)._

_“My problem,” Jean enunciates, slowly, “is that we are going to have to survive this clusterfuck of a war before we even get to think about any of those things.”_

_There he goes again, Mister Negativity. Eren feels a rather strong desire to try to knock some sense into him. But Armin is giving him a piteous look, a look which says ‘please don’t start this’, and so he relents, going for the diplomatic approach. Or at least the approach which doesn’t involve anyone’s nose getting broken. (Diplomatic by Eren standards, in other words.)_

_“Okay, so maybe you don’t give a shit about seeing the outside world, like Armin and me do,” he snaps. “But if you don’t have something you’re fighting for, then why are you even here? Even a guy like you has got to have something like that, right?”_

_Silence follows this statement. Armin sighs; touches Eren’s arm, as though the gesture might pacify him. The only sound is that of Sasha licking her bowl clean, and then lurching to her feet to pester the mess sergeant for seconds._

_Eren’s busy riding a little cloud of self-righteousness, but he does notice for a second the weird look that flashes across Jean’s face. Then it’s gone, and Jean just looks like an asshole again. He leans back, letting out a bark of sardonic laughter._

_“Tell me that one again after we make it out of here alive,” he says, “and maybe I’ll change my mind.”_

_Eren grins at him. “Just so you know, the first thing I’m gonna do when we get to the ocean is push your dumb ass in.”_

_“I fucking dare you, chump,” Jean snorts._

_“You just wait, Kirschtein,” Eren tells him, laughing. “You just wait.” And in his mind’s eye, there flickers briefly the image of Jean drenched from head to toe, standing knee-deep in the luminous, turquoise-blue expanse of the sea. It’s still something he has trouble picturing; he can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like, water stretching across the horizon, as far as the eye can see. Water and waves, sun and sand; freedom, freedom, freedom._

_The thought of it puts a knot of deep longing in his belly, an ache, an insatiable hunger, a desperate need. Something to look forward to? He’s got that in spades._

✽

In keeping with the tradition of expeditions into brave new worlds, Eren was scheduled to set out at daybreak. The morning air is apple-crisp; seems to hold within it a promise of the future, of everything that’s to come, and the light which seeps across the courtyard is watery, colorless, painting the world in shades of mist and grey.

Conveniently, one of Armin’s many industrious underlings has already prepared supplies for him; all that’s left to do is check items off the list and make sure everything’s packed. For instance, it’d be a real drag to set off without a compass. And he’s gotta make sure he has a knife, too, or he’ll be skinning rabbits with his teeth. He’s halfway down the list when he hears footsteps crunching in the gravel behind him, and spins round in a panic to see who’s approaching. (His instincts might have dulled a little, but they’re not disabled, and someone coming up behind him without him expecting it sets off alarm bells in his head.)

As it turns out, it’s Jean Kirschtein that’s walking towards him, leading his horse by the reins. Eren’s stomach gives a nauseating lurch.

To cover up his agitation he blurts out, voice too loud in the early morning stillness, “The hell are  _you_  doing here? I don’t remember inviting anyone else to come with.”

Jean raises an eyebrow. “What’s it look like, genius? I’m going with you.”

His stomach, clearly banking on a career in the circus, begins doing flips. Eren grits his teeth and tries his best to ignore it.

“Don’t you have other stuff to do?” he demands. “And don’t tell me Armin put you up to this.”

Clearing his throat, Jean comes to a stop beside Eren. “Not in so many words,” he says, delicately, tying up his horse before patting the side of its head with casual affection.

That isn’t really what Eren wanted to hear, of course. The last thing he needs is Armin sending someone to babysit him. Heroes of the great war don’t need fucking  _babysitting_.

“I don’t care if you can’t keep up, I’m not gonna slow down for you,” he mutters.

“Yeah, yeah,” is all Jean says, in his most long-suffering tone of voice. Which pisses Eren off even more, because what gives him the fucking right? He scowls, staring at the ground for a moment, and then whips his head back up again viciously.

“Well?”

Jean gives him a weird look. “Well what?”

“Do you even have supplies with you?”

Rolling his eyes, Jean turns away. “Give somebody else in the fucking army some credit for once, will ya?” He pats the pack slung over his horse’s flanks. “Armin’s men kitted me out for the trip. Besides,” he adds, looking at Eren again, “in case you didn’t realize, I’ve been in charge of this whole shebang from day one. They gave the exploration planning to me because Arlert was busy with the recovery efforts.”

Eren, who is not in the mood to be reasoned with, merely folds his arms across his chest in a combative manner.

“So you’re just doing a bunk in the middle of your work because Armin told you to, huh?” He snorts, loudly. “That’s real responsible of you. A real model officer—”

“I am  _going_  with you,” Jean interrupts, irritably, “because I want to.”

Eren’s brain, having apparently decided that Eren no longer needs the use of it, grinds to a halt.

“Oh. You…” He pauses, fishing for words in a very empty word-sea, and coming up with nothing. “Um… really?”

Jean snorts quietly.

“Why the hell not? It’s not a bad idea for an officer to go with the first expedition. Besides, it looks good to the men. Like I’ve got faith in my own plans, or something like that.”

Biting his lip, Eren simmers down a little. It’s kind of hard not to feel like a flaming asshole after that, which is not something that he’s used to. Self-awareness, after all, is something that happens to  _other_  people.

In the meantime, Jean tilts his head back to study the lightening sky, before looking back to Eren. “So,” he says. “Where to?”

Eren shrugs, eliciting an incredulous look from Jean.

“You don’t even know?”

“Figured I’d keep walking until I got tired or hungry, then I’d turn right around and come back home,” says Eren with a grin.

Once again, Jean rolls his eyes. (Eren wonders if it’d be obnoxious to start keeping count.) “Yeah, okay. Remind me to put you in charge of the plans if we ever want to send a bunch of soldiers to die of starvation in the wilderness.”

After some digging, he rescues a roll of worn parchment from his pack. It turns out to be a map, meticulously hand-drawn; the sort the scouting legion used to use on its expeditions outside the walls.

Leading Eren away from their horses for the moment, he spreads this out over the top of a barrel for them both to look at. It doesn’t have much on it—just those landmarks and features of the terrain which the scouting legion had discovered before the fall of Maria. Beyond its drawn boundaries, there are large blank patches, swathes of nothingness waiting to be filled in.

Even so, the maps are pretty precious things, typically retained for the exclusive use of command. Eren squints at it for a few long moments, pondering this, before something clicks into place.

“Say…” he begins, haltingly. “Did you draw this?”

Jean doesn’t answer right away, although the backs of his ears might be turning slightly pink.

“Jean?”

At that, he looks back up, giving Eren a fierce look. “ _What_? Look, if you want to go out there without a map, that’s fine by me, too.”

“Hey, no, I mean…” Eren throws up his hands placatingly. “I was just asking. Sorry.”

Still scowling, Jean subsides.

“And… thank you,” Eren adds, sheepishly.

There is an awkward silence. Jean clears his throat, and then jams a finger into the map, tracing it down from the south gate—their current location—into the charted and uncharted wilderness.

“Anyway,” he continues brusquely, as though nothing had happened, “I thought we could follow this stream, since we’ll be needing water anyway. It’ll take us right off the map—” he taps one of the wide empty spaces, “and we can see what we find there.”

With his eyes, Eren re-traces the path that Jean’s fingertip took, eventually settling upon the barren section of canvas that represents the unknown.

He shrugs. It seems as good a plan as any.

“Okay,” he says, and smiles a little. “I’ll trust you on this one, captain.”

If Jean’s smiling when he mounts up, Eren can’t tell—but he’d really like to think that he is.

✽

_Squad 29 has vanished._

_They have evaporated; they have ceased to be, disappeared without a trace, gone up in smoke. All that’s left of Squad 29 is an empty space, the vacancy in the formation between the remains of Squad 28 and 30._

_Just this morning Squad 29 was seven good men and women, riding their horses into their fray with the rest of the scouting legion. Now: nothing. Squad 29’s left town, and didn’t bother leaving so much as a forwarding address._

_The post-mission debriefing lasts all of five minutes. Eren spends the entire thing almost vibrating with outrage; Mikasa has to keep stepping on his foot to keep him in line. The moment they’re dismissed, he breaks formation, charging forward to catch Armin before he disappears into the command tent._

_“We can’t just leave them out there!” he yells, his voice a little garbled as his throat pieces itself together. His face is still a horror show, striped with muscle tissue, sizzling softly as skin re-forms over it._

_Armin looks weary, wearier than Eren has ever seen him, but somehow Eren can’t seem to summon up any sympathy. Not now, not in this place, not with an entire squad lost in the unknown._

_“We can’t spare the men to go look for them right now,” Armin says, in a tight voice. “Not when the probability that they’re still alive is so low.”_

_He doesn’t go on, but the message is clear: as far as Command is concerned, Squad 29 is as good as dead._

_He shakes Eren’s hand off and walks on, his shoulders slumped, caving in a little on himself with the weight of responsibility._

_Eren watches him go, fuming, his anger a lump in his throat that he can’t swallow. It’s the wise thing to do, maybe, but it’s not right. It’s not right at all. Just giving up on your own, like that, without knowing for sure… he won’t stand for it._

_So, grinding his teeth, he storms off to put things right himself._

_It’s Jean, of course, who finds him in the stables, saddling up his horse in a fine temper. Jean fucking Kirschtein, who’s never known what’s good for him; who’s always poking the stupid nose of his stupid horse face into shit that isn’t even his business._

_“Hey there, nutjob,” he says, cheerfully, pulling open the gate to slip into the stall belonging to Eren’s horse with him. “What’s the hurry?”_

_“Piss off, Kirschtein,” Eren snarls, “I don’t have time for your shit!”_

_Jean grabs at his shoulder; spins him around until they’re face to face._

_“Oh, I think you do, soldier,” he says, rather calmly. “So start talking.”_

_Eren glares at him, expecting to see anger in his face, but finding none. Kinda surprising, actually, because Jean wouldn’t normally miss an opportunity to condescend to him or treat him like a shitty little kid, when he gets like this. The difference in what he’d expected and what’s actually happening is unsettling, and a moment later, he explodes._

_“Those are_ our  _men and women out there!” he yells. “We can’t just leave them to die! There’s no bodies… or… or_ pieces _, either, so we don’t know that they’re dead. We have to make sure!”_

_“And so you’re going to ride back out there, all by yourself, in the middle of the night, are you?”_

_“Yes!”_

_Shaking his head, Jean laughs. “Absolute fucking suicide, in other words,” he mutters. “I guess this is the day you finally become titan chow, huh?”_

_He clearly isn’t expecting Eren to snap, grab him by the collar and almost haul him off his feet, because his eyes bulge comically with surprise as Eren does precisely that._

_“If we give up on them now, when they could still be alive… they’re gonna die alone,” Eren snarls at him. “You know that, right? They’ll die out there, all alone, where no one can see, and no one will even know what happened to them. If that’s what you want, Jean—if you’re okay with that, then you just sit right here and wait for me to get back._ I’m _going to go look for them.”_

_He releases Jean, who sinks back to his feet from the tip-toe position he’d been dragged into. Despite all evidence to the contrary, it’s quite possible that Eren Jaeger is, in fact, capable of feeling emotions like shame or embarrassment. But at the moment, any such overtures are completely overpowered by the sheer force of his bloody-minded self-righteousness. (And don’t even mention the fact that he’s just talked back to a captain, because that’s not worthy of consideration.)_

_With nothing more to add, he returns sullenly to saddling his horse. He hears the gate creak open again; hears Jean latch it, and he’s just thinking about yelling something snide after Jean’s cowardly retreating back, when he hears the sound of metal clinking, leather dragging across skin, and whirls around._

_Two stalls over, Jean is saddling up his own horse._

_Eren stares at him for a second before demanding, loudly, “What do you think you’re doing?”_

_Jean gives him a look like he’s completely simple._

_“Going with you. Obviously,” he says._

_“You.” Eren’s mouth hangs open for a moment before he gets control of himself again. “You can’t do that,” he says, and despite his lack of mental clarity, he still has enough sense to sound vaguely alarmed at the prospect of Jean accompanying him._

_With bridle and riding tack in hands, Jean adopts a thoughtful posture._

_“Well, that’s quite a lovely sentiment, Jaeger,” he says, “but as it turns out, I outrank you and you can’t fucking tell me what to do.” He turns back to his horse, who is waiting patiently. “Now finish getting the saddle on your horse, or I’ll damn well do it for you.”_

_It takes a moment for Eren to parse this, simply because it’s so unexpected. But, for once in his life, he doesn’t argue._

_“—Okay, then,” he says, and pulls the straps on the saddle tight. “Fine. Let’s go.”_

✽

Not far from the gate, they find the stream which is to serve as their guide on their journey. It loops down and around the walls from a westerly direction—“Probably from the mountains over that way. We’ll find out soon enough,” Jean says—and wends its way off through the woods, leading them southwards. Their horses pick their way across trails seeded with fallen leaves and grasping ferns; the occasional moss-covered log. Here, the forest canopy is thick, and most of the time they travel in the shade. But the air is fresh, as though it’s come down off the mountaintops along with the stream, and Eren savors it in deep, rich lungfuls, tasting grass and spring water, the bite of pine, clean soil, the deep woods and the open plains, with every breath.

It isn’t long before they come across the site of a battle, a place where the fighting came to a head. It’s sheer carnage—trees felled at random, the undergrowth all torn up and holes ripped in the canopy. This had been one of the last, actually; happening barely a week before the end. The cannonfire, the sound of gas spitting, cables reeling, the screams and cries of the wounded, the dying, the very-nearly-dead… he remembers it well. Or at least—he thinks he does.

At some point, though, it gets hard to tease apart all the fragments of memories; the moments of despair and triumph, but mostly despair. By now, those days have all melted into one long nightmare, and he’d have just as much luck trying to make sense of memories of his life before he learned how to speak.

When they arrive, a silent agreement passes between them, and they both stop, lingering in that place a while to pay their respects to the fallen. A torn, roughspun strip of green cloth dangles from a nearby branch, at about face-level. Eren recognizes that particular shade of green immediately, and picks the strip of cloth up with unusual care.

He finds himself wondering how long it will take for the trees to heal; for their broken branches to grow back, and for the fallen ones to decay. How many years must pass before no trace of humanity’s struggles remains, in this place? How long will it take for the world to recover?

The answer, unfortunately for Eren, is not written on the dead soldier’s cloak. Jean is waiting; watching him without comment. They neither of them speak, and Eren is glad of it, because how could words ever be adequate? There are no words for this; the woods silent as the grave, deep gouges in the ground where the feet of titan had once fallen, the remembrance of facing death in the struggle for freedom.

In silence, he tucks the scrap of cloth into his pocket, saddles up again, and they ride on.

As it turns out, Jean’s done his homework (or at least badgered Sasha for a primer on wilderness survival), and the knives on their belts see a lot of use. Every now and then he spots a tree, and drags Eren over to it. “Birch,” he’ll say, “We can eat the inner bark,” or perhaps, “Linden. Good for making rope.” Then he dismounts for a minute, gathering a little bark here, a few branches there. Or maybe he points out a game trail—a clump of fur, caught in the branches of a low shrub, or a few stray droppings— before making a tiny mark on the map with a charcoal pencil, in case they pass this way again.

Eren doesn’t mind these little diversions so much. It gives him plenty of time to look around; to take in all that his eyes can see. The long grass waving in a stray breeze, the dappled light on the forest floor. This is the outside world, he reminds himself over and over again, here it is at last. The world they were born into; the place where they belong.

Probably it should feel different from the inside in some way. Or maybe that’s an epiphany that’s still waiting to happen. Any day now, he thinks, tugging lightly on the reins and shifting his weight to guide his horse into cantering after Jean’s. Any day now.

They break around noontime in a small clearing west of the stream, to feed and water their horses, and avail themselves of their dry rations. While Eren tends to the animals, Jean seats himself beneath a tree and unrolls the map, hunching over and studying it intently. He makes a couple more marks; circles things and adds notes, pinching the charcoal pencil between thumb and forefinger. When, unthinking, he wipes at his brow, it leaves a sooty smudge that Eren decides not to mention to him. He merely continues to watch Jean, gnawing industriously on a piece of hardtack.

Fortunately, Jean puts the map away before he ends up breaking his teeth.

“We’re making good time,” Jean tells him, as they set off again. “A couple more days and we’ll have just about reached the end of the map. That is,” he adds, with something like a grin, “if you think you can keep up with me.”

Eren whips off a salute with one hand, reins held in the other. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

Jean gives him a look of deep disgust. Even on missions, they’ve never really done the whole captain thing; it’s only ever something Jean brings up so he can lord it over Eren. (Not to mention, addressing Jean with respect is, for Eren, something best done sarcastically.) “Granted,” he says, warily.

Dropping the salute, Eren tells him, “You can take your patronizing bullshit and shove it up your ass, sir.”

Straight-faced, he holds Jean’s stare for nearly ten whole seconds before he cracks a grin. Jean tosses his head back and lets out a peal of laughter, startling a couple of birds who are hanging out in a nearby tree.

It’s been a while, Eren thinks, since he’s had the chance to ride at Jean’s side like this—just the two of them, talking, laughing, their hearts and minds at ease. There was another time… but that was when the war was still going on, and the circumstances of it were… different, to say the least.

Still grinning to himself, he leans back a little in the saddle, closing his eyes for a moment. The darkness behind his eyelids is expansive, cavern-like, and for a moment he’s transported to another time, another place… darkness and the thud of hooves on the ground…

✽

_“Can’t see shit,” Jean mutters grimly. He is buried somewhere in the blackness to Eren’s left, invisible._

_“Horses know the way,” Eren calls back, over the sound of steady hoofbeats._

_It’s something that he’d never admit out loud, but the journey from camp to the village that was the site of their last mission is nerveracking. It’s a moonless night, and his eyes don’t seem to know what to do with so much darkness. Everywhere he looks, weird shapes, ghastly apparitions materialize before him. As though to make up for the deficit in his vision, his other senses feel heightened. His ears pick up every snort of breath his horse exhales; the reins feel rugged, rough against his palms as he grasps them tighter._

_He tries not to think about either of them riding right into a titan’s open mouth, because thoughts like that are not helpful in the slightest. Tries not to think about what Jean had said to him earlier, either, because no, it bloody well isn’t his day to die. Not if he has anything to say about it._

_But that’s probably what the soldiers of Squad 29 thought, too, right before they vanished off the face of the earth._

_They probably thought about a lot of things. Like what they’d have for breakfast tomorrow, or whether they’d ever beat their squad leader at cards. How their families were doing at home. When they’d get their next day off to visit. Normal things, everyday things. Simple human concerns._

_And for the very first time that he can remember, he is struck by the sheer futility of planning ahead, when you’re not even sure that there’s going to be a tomorrow to plan for._

_It’s a horrible thought, and he shoves it away immediately, but it only buries itself in the back of his mind to take root there._ Been spending too much time with Kirschtein, he’s starting to rub off on me _, he thinks viciously—knowing it’s a stupid thought, but clinging to it anyway._ Tomorrow’s waiting for us. Let’s not keep it waiting.

_The titans are less active at night, of course, but that’s no guarantee of anything. So he doesn’t light the lantern he’s brought with him until they’re well into the village, their horses’ hooves clattering across what probably used to be the town square. They dismount, warily, taking their horses’ reins into hand._

_“Where do we start looking?” Jean whispers to him, staring around into the blackness._

_Eren shrugs, raising the lantern up over his head to illuminate the area around him._

_There are streaks of dry blood on the cobblestones which lead off down the street; a trail like a person—a wounded, dying person—got dragged a long distance. Eren swallows hard, and points._

_“That way, I guess,” he croaks, then leads on._

_It’s hard to see at night, especially when the moon is new, but that’s probably something he should’ve thought of before dragging them both out here, so he isn’t about to complain out loud. Leading their horses behind them, they pick their way through the hollowed-out ruins of cottages and across streets, trying not to look directly at the occasional severed limb, or worse. The first time they come across one, Eren recoils with a soft cry; after that, it’s less of a surprise. If you don’t look too closely, you can almost imagine that it’s a stick of wood, pale as ivory; the only thing that gives it away is the faint blue tinge permeating the skin._

_Once, Eren catches a glimpse of Jean’s expression in the lamplight, and he can tell what’s going through Jean’s head, because it’s a reflection of his own thoughts. It’s hopeless. No one could have survived this. But Jean remains silent, and together they continue to sift through the rubble; to step over the still bodies of soldiers who will never go home again._

_Nearly a half hour passes like this, the two of them repeating this dreadful routine, combing meticulously through the silent and black village for signs of life, and finding none. The fear has dwindled to little more than a dull throb in Eren’s chest from sheer fatigue, though it spikes occasionally, whenever an incongruent sound reaches his ears._

_Like now: a soft rumble, then the clatter of bricks on stone; a noise like part of a wall collapsing. Both of them spin round in a panic._

_“What is it?” Jean murmurs. His eyes are big and round and terrified. “Do you see anything?”_

_Tentatively, Eren raises the lantern higher, squinting into the darkness just beyond its reach. Then, a quiet moan makes them both jump; Jean seizes Eren’s arm, fingers digging into the flesh like claws._

_Pale—probably because he’s covered from head to toe with mortar dust—but definitely alive, a person, a human being, comes stumbling out of a gutted building nearby. Eren rushes forward, catching the soldier as, with his next trembling step, his legs give way, depositing him on the ground. After a second, Jean follows, kneeling to help._

_“Your squad number, soldier?” he demands. His hands are shaking as he helps Eren hold the guy up, but that’s not something Eren’s gonna call him out on, not right now. The man is so weak that he can barely get a word out, but Eren recognizes him—it’s Weber, from Squad 29. He’s a little beat up, covered in scratches and bruises, but he has all his limbs intact and, most importantly, he’s still breathing._

_“Did anyone else from your squad make it?” Eren asks him, in a low, urgent voice._

_Weber manages to shake his head ‘no’. Which is just about what he’d expected, but still—they’d made one miracle happen, it couldn’t hurt to hope for one more. He straightens up, hauling the soldier with him, bodily, and then helps him onto the back of Jean’s horse. This is an understanding that passes between them, without the need for words. It makes more sense for the guy to ride with Jean, because if anything happens, Eren’s gonna be the one calling down the titan thunder. Besides, Jean’s better with the 3DMG. He’s got a better chance of getting two people out safe, if things go south._

_The ride back to camp is silent. For some reason Eren doesn’t much feel like saying I told you so or any of the dozens of other things that occur to him. Part of that is because they’re not out of the woods yet, and he doesn’t particularly want the last words he ever says to be ‘I told you so’. But mostly, it’s because… because Jean is here, riding by his side. Jean came with him, when he didn’t have to; when it was crazy, complete suicide, to do so._

_That’s all that really matters._

_Miraculously, the return trip is completed without a hitch, and they manage to deliver Weber, more or less in one piece, to the medical tents, before the messenger reaches them._

_He dashes off a crisp salute, which they return awkwardly, then informs them, “The commander would like a word with both of you.” There’s barely enough time for them to exchange an apprehensive glance before they’re being led away._

_A minute later, they’re standing at attention in front of the commander himself, who looks like he hasn’t slept a wink in days. Erwin’s always cut an imposing figure, but right now, in the darkness just before dawn, he scares the living daylights out of Eren._

_For a while he simply… studies them, his eyes sliding back and forth between their faces, his expression indecipherable. Eren, for his part, tries not to look as though he’s made any horrendously bad decisions in the past twenty-four hours, but it’s hard because making good decisions isn’t generally what he’s known for._

_At length, Erwin addresses them._

_“Captain, I do believe I gave orders to retreat,” is what he begins with. “And I must say that when I give orders, I generally expect them to be obeyed.”_

_“Sir, it was my—“_

_“I don’t recall giving you permission to speak, Jaeger,” Erwin says, rather sharply, before nodding to Jean. “Please proceed, captain.”_

_Eren subsides, looking mutinous. Meanwhile, Jean, in the manner of frightened animals everywhere, has let his instincts take over. He is staring straight ahead, a parody of military efficiency, and rips off a salute like his life depends on it, which—hell—maybe it does._

_“Sir!” he barks. “I understand full well that lives must sometimes be sacrificed for larger objectives, or else I wouldn’t have joined the scouting legion, sir!” Looking pale, he pauses and swallows; shuts his eyes for a moment before continuing. “—But I also believe that if lives must be lost, there ought to be a good reason for it! No soldier’s death should be meaningless!”_

_Eren, watching Jean out of the corner of his eye, feels a jolt of some indescribable emotion, like a static shock._

_Later he will recall this moment, and he’ll think—ah. This right here, this is when it happened. But for now, all this feeling manifests itself as is a little twinge in the chest; a strange, unidentifiable ache, a kind of mute, directionless longing._

_In the interim, Erwin continues to watch them, thoughtfully. The silence drags on for so long that Eren starts to flag a little, although he manages to get himself to straighten up when he remembers that he is in such deep shit right now._

_The silence is clearly getting to Jean, though, because after a while, he coughs. Reluctantly, he mumbles, “—My punishment, sir?”_

_Erwin fixes him with an odd look. “I’m ruthless, captain,” he says, “not inhuman.” He sighs, waving a hand at them in a shooing motion. “Dismissed. And no more carrying out suicide missions with humanity’s best weapon in the war, if you will.”_

_Then he walks off, leaving the both of them standing there, still standing awkwardly at attention._

_Eren chances a glance at Jean, who looks completely shell-shocked. He nudges him with an elbow to jog him out of his thoughts. Jean jumps, then turns on him._

_“What now?” he snaps._

_Eren gives him a grin, and holds out a fist, which Jean stares at like he can’t believe what he’s seeing._

_“You have got to be kidding me,” he says, but Eren only raises his eyebrows and grins some wider._

_And maybe Jean is rolling his eyes as he mutters, “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” but all the same, he reaches out and bumps their knuckles together anyway._

_“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Eren says, brightly._

_“Get fucked, Jaeger,” Jean grumbles, but he can’t quite keep the smile off his face as he turns away._

✽

On their first night, they settle in a clearing, in the the middle of a small copse of trees. The onset of evening slices the daylight to ribbons, and as the sky darkens, the chill sets in fast. This time, Jean’s on horsecare duty; he swings by the river to water them while Eren, remaining at the campsite, clears out a little area in the center of the clearing, shifting piles of dead leaves and foliage from the forest floor. The soil beneath is dark brown and loamy, almost springy to the touch.

He digs a shallow indentation with the trowel from his pack, and then lines the pit with rocks. Inside this pit, he forms a loose pile of twigs and fallen branches, and tops it off with a few handfuls of dry grass and stripped-off bark.

It only takes a few sparks from his flint and steel for it to take light. On hands and knees, he crouches over the fire pit, puffing diligently at the little flickering flame to encourage it to grow. It’s a tedious process, but infinitely preferable to freezing to death later on, and by the time Jean returns, he’s got a pretty healthy-sized fire going.

"Horses all taken care of?" he asks, glancing up as Jean settles down, making himself comfortable on the other side of the fire.

"Yeah.” He points. “Tied ‘em up just over there."

As Eren watches, he pulls out from his pack a couple of the strips of bark he’d collected from various trees earlier in the day. These he teases apart carefully, discarding the drier outer crust in the fire as added fuel, and retaining the soft green underbelly in long, fibrous strands.

By the light of the fire, he begins to knot and weave these together into thin lengths of rope, to replace what they’d used that day. Eren watches his fingers at work, marveling at their dexterity.

He’s never had to weave rope before, but he does remember gathering firewood with Mikasa a long time ago, which had been a real pain in the ass. He’d been a lot smaller back then, though, so maybe the firewood had been a lot heavier, too.

Not that it really mattered, since Mikasa had done so much of the work. (The fact that he could admit that now was probably a sign of how much he’d matured, or something, right?)

"What’s that?" Jean asks, suddenly.

Eren stops, his voice dying away into silence. He hadn’t even realized he’d been humming, and thinks back on the tune, trying to place it.

It’s a little ditty from his childhood. His mother, he recalls, with a slight pang, used to sing it while she was hanging out the laundry to dry, or making breakfast. The words are all lost to him now, swept away into the annals of history—but the melody remains, a throwback to long-lost days, to happy times.

Staring into the fire, he smiles, tentatively.

"Just… a song my mom used to sing, when I was little," he mumbles.

Jean glances up at him, then back down at his own hands, which have gone still. After a moment, he says, quietly, “Yeah, my mom used to do that kinda thing, too. I can still remember the words to some of them.” He chuckles. “She used to make me sing along, when she felt like embarrassing me in front of the neighbor kids.”

That gets Eren to perk up a little. “Oh yeah? Sing one for me.”

Jean groans. “You wish.”

"C’mon! You heard me sing one. Quid pro quo!"

Wryly, Jean asks, “Armin teach you that phrase, did he?”

"As a matter of fact… he did," says Eren, with a grin.

"Still." After another moment, Jean’s fingers resume moving. "Not happening, Jaeger."

"I promise I won’t laugh! Promise," Eren says, earnestly. "And if I do, you can punch me. I won’t even fight back."

Jean fixes him with a deeply suspicious look, because it’s probably one of those offers that sounds too good to be true.

"In the face?" he asks.

"Right in the nose," says Eren, with a solemn nod.

Jean sighs, sitting back. From his sour expression, it’s pretty clear that he thinks he’s making a shitty decision. However, the lure of maybe getting to punch Eren in the face is apparently too great to resist, because after a moment or two, he opens his mouth and begins to sing, in a low, throaty voice, surprisingly tuneful.

“ _On s’est connus, on s’est reconnus, on s’est perdus de vue, on s’est r’perdus d’vue…_ ”

It’s not in any language Eren recognizes; he supposes it must be one of the old dead ones, from the days before humanity found the walls. But there’s something about the husky quality of Jean’s singing voice, the way it cradles each note, that draws him in. He sets his chin in his palms, leaning forward, and watches Jean through half-lidded eyes as the song fills the clearing, lulling him. He’s always liked looking at Jean’s hands; those long fingers, it seems to him, were made for precision work, the most delicate of tasks. Not like Eren’s own, which were apparently made for being bitten bloody, and not much else. And somewhere in the back of his mind he hears a voice, Jean’s voice, it’s saying—

✽

_"Fucking hell, Eren, could you be any worse at this?"_

_"Shut up," Eren mutters, leaning closer to Jean in the back of the wagon. He is finding it somewhat hard to concentrate because images from the battle keep strong-arming their way into his mind. He’d been there, after all, so he remembers it clearly. A titan swatted Jean out of the air like a fly; sent him spinning, reeling, into the side of a tree, which had stretched out its branches in welcome. Two more inches to the right and Jean probably wouldn’t be sitting here snarking at Eren like the asshole he is. Two tiny little inches between Jean and certain death._

_(Two inches, Eren thinks, is way, way too close for comfort.)_

_He sighs, trying to shake himself out of sticky recollections._

_"Just hold the damn gauze in place, will you?"_

_He yanks on the ends of the bandages to make them tight, and Jean flinches with a quiet little grunt of pain. Blood drips into his eyes, which Eren wipes away hastily, muttering, “Shit. Sorry.”_

_It’s a pity seeing Jean like this, because Eren’s always kind of had a liking for his unbandaged, unbloodied face. (Less so whenever Jean was getting all up in his face, being an asshole or screaming stupid shit, but still.) Two inches isn’t a whole lot, but right now, to Eren, it’s his whole damn world. He feels like he’s spinning, adrift; like he’s lost all sense of proportion._

_It’s how he takes the days now, too; one at a time, so they’re easier to handle. So he can cope. Because whenever he’s not careful enough, if he lets his mind wander, he’ll start thinking about unnecessary things. Like the way the soldier in the bed next to him the last time he was in the infirmary had screamed and screamed until finally falling silent some hours later, and when Eren woke up there was no soldier in the bed next to him, not anymore. Or how clammy his squadmate’s hand had felt in his own as he whispered to Eren about how cold he was, so cold, couldn’t Eren do something, couldn’t he please help._

_And there was nothing Eren could do, he couldn’t help at all, and he’d watched the man die without even saying a word in the end; all he’d been able to do was hold his hand like an idiot and leach the last scraps of heat from his body._

_And when he gets to thinking about unnecessary things like that, his chest will start seizing up, it gets hard to breathe, and then the shaking will set in, and that’s really hard to hide, so it’s best not to even go down that path to begin with. He wouldn’t want to worry anyone, after all._

_Behind the bandages, beyond Eren’s struggling hands, Jean lets out a wet-sounding laugh._

_"My grandma could probably do this better than you, and she’s blind," he says, cheerfully._

_"Oh yeah?" Eren mutters, gritting his teeth as he ties a knot, and then tucks the loose ends in. "Why don’t you get her to come down here and do this for you, then?" He wipes his hands off absently, on his trousers, before he remembers that they’ve got Jean’s blood all over them. Well…_ had _. Now, Jean’s blood is a lovely streak of pink on his pants leg, from thigh to knee._

_Jean’s still woozy from blood loss, his breathing labored as he leans against the side of the cart himself, but he still spares a second to study the new addition Eren’s trousers, giving it a sarcastic nod._

_"Good look for you," he says, faintly._

_The smile on his face is pained; it makes Eren’s chest feel tight. He bites back the retort that was on the tip of his tongue—something about how gaping head wounds aren’t exactly in style, either—and shoves awkwardly at Jean’s shoulder instead. “Just lie down, asshole,” he mutters. “There’s no one around to see you putting on a brave face.”_

_"No one except you," Jean points out. But he lies back anyway, wincing a little when his head bumps the bottom of the cart. His eyes, slightly dazed, settle on the vast sky overhead, streaked through with puffy clouds._

_For some soldiers, those clouds are probably the last things they’ll see. But not him, he thinks; not Jean, not today._

_"Sky’s real blue today," he hears Jean murmur, from the bottom of the cart._

_"Whatever you say, Kirschtein," Eren answers, in a tolerant voice. "Whatever you say."_

_But he tilts his head back, too; studies it, in all its wonder, and thinks—yeah, it really is._

✽

When Eren opens his eyes, it’s to the soft rustling of branches, leaf-shadows dancing and waving, with strips of the blue sky beyond winking at him through the trees. He sits up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Nearby, his horse whickers softly.

"Jean?" he tries. His voice feels scratchy, so he feels about for his canteen, finding it in his pack. The last few mouthfuls of water inside disappear down his throat; he makes a mental note to refill it at the stream later.

Moments later, Jean comes crunching back towards him through the undergrowth.

"That’s captain Kirschtein to you, soldier," he says, stepping into the clearing. He’s carrying something over his shoulder. Eren squints at it.

It’s the body of a rabbit, with a fair bit of meat on its bones. He scrambles to his feet, the cloak that he was using as a blanket falling away from his legs. “You caught something!”

Jean grins at him. “Yeah, we caught something. Pretty lucky, huh?”

It  _is_  lucky, Eren thinks, almost unbelievably so. Then again, luck is a condition that seems to have defined most of Jean’s adventures in the scouting legion. He’s survived countless battles—sustained injuries, of course, there’s no one who hasn’t—but in the end, he’s always made it through okay. Honestly, the fact that he’s one of the few still alive at the end of it all, still here and breathing, seems to be nothing short of a miracle.

Eren, on the other hand—well. With the number of limbs and other body parts he’s lost, you could probably piece together a couple of brand new soldiers, and still have some bits left over. (Incidentally that was an idea he had, once, about whether he could donate some of those bits to soldiers who needed them, but unfortunately Hanji had said that it wasn’t that simple. So.)

Eren fetches his knife, and takes the rabbit from Jean. He bleeds the carcass dry, first, burying the spilled blood in a shallow pit, and skins it. Then he removes the entrails, inspecting them carefully for signs of disease, before starting to cut into the muscle tissue, the bits they can eat. Some of this is set aside for smoking, later; the rest of it goes into a pot full of water raised over the fire pit, along with a few dandelion heads and ramson leaves he collects from nearby. In the meantime, Jean leaves to explore the surrounding area, taking a little notebook and a charcoal pencil with him.

Eren watches the food stew until he gets bored of it, and starts poking listlessly at the fire with the charred end of a stick. He doesn’t have to be bored for long, though, because Jean soon returns, almost brimming over with excitement.

“Jaeger! Hey, Jaeger!”

“Huh?” Eren looks up from where he’s been scratching bad words into the ground around the cooking pot.

“Come with me!”

Eren stares at him. “But the food—“

All he gets is an impatient gesture. “Forget the food,” Jean says, “you’ve  _got_  to see this.” Which is rather rude, Eren thinks, considering he’s gone to all the trouble of trying to cook something that doesn’t taste like ass. He says as much, too, as Jean comes stomping over in a hurry.

“If some animal comes along and eats our lunch, you owe me your rations for today,” he gripes.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jean says, grabbing his arm to lug him to his feet.

So Eren allows himself to be led through the bushes, back the way Jean came. It’s quite a walk, too; several minutes pass without so much as an explanation from Jean.

Finally, they come to a halt before a misshapen pile of fallen trees and other forest debris. After Eren stares for a few moments, it resolves itself into what looks to be a makeshift shelter, leaves and moss packed over a skeleton of branches. It isn’t particularly advanced or anything; looks pretty much like the kind of shelter they’d make in a pinch if it was raining. Apart from the fact that it’s almost twice as tall as Jean at its highest point, there isn’t anything abnormal about it at all.

Jean lets go of Eren’s arm, then, and points, as though Eren wasn’t already staring at it. “Look at the size of this thing!” he cries.

“It looks like—“ Eren hesitates, biting his lip. “Like a tent, or something.”

“You’re damn right it does,” Jean says. “I’m gonna make a sketch and bring this back to Arlert, he’ll love it. I wonder why we’ve never found one before? Or maybe this was a special case, one of the Aberrants…” He trails off, then, lost in thought.

Eren doesn’t answer. It’s certainly an interesting discovery, but somehow, coming this close to it makes him feel uneasy. Perhaps it’s the fact that it’s a reminder that the titans were human, once, too; human just like him. Really, the only difference is that Eren could choose to change back, while the titans were stuck. Trapped forever in those mindless bodies; slaves to evil desires that came from outside themselves.

How many humans died in the war? he wonders. (And what would that number be like if you counted the titans, as well?)

He killed them all with barely a thought. In fact, for the longest time,  it was all he wanted to do.

But it’s not like his situation’s unique in any way. That’s what they all became in the end—mindless killers, titan-slayers. Because if you stopped to think, there was a chance you’d never start moving again. And in a survival situation, when your back’s to the wall, there’s no time to worry about right or wrong, about where to draw the line between humans and titans.

All you can do is fight. Fight to win, fight to survive. Surviving, living to fight another day,  _was_  winning. It’s as simple as that.

“That could be it, yeah,” he mumbles, trying not to let his thoughts show on his face.

Unfortunately, Jean seems to sense that something is off, because he looks up and over at Eren, tilting his head slightly.

“‘swrong?” he asks.

Eren shrugs, appearing to be very interested in the patterns on the bark of a nearby tree.

Jean studies him for a moment, then asks, shrewdly, “Thinking about the war, huh?”

Eren doesn’t answer, which is, of course, a dead giveaway. And he’s half expecting Jean to make fun of him, but Jean just hums, quietly, turning his face back up to the titan-sized shelter.

At length, he says, quietly, “Yeah, I get that. It wasn’t… great. Wasn’t a great time for anyone.” He chuckles, dryly, then turns, putting his back to Eren. “You don’t… have to force yourself to get excited about this. It’s a neat discovery, but like I said, probably more of interest to Arlert than anyone else.” He clears his throat, then adds, kind of self-consciously, “But y’know, you don’t have to kick yourself about this forever, either.”

When he turns back to look at Eren, it’s with a small smile on his face.

Eren glances at him, then down again at his feet, not quite able to meet Jean’s eyes. It’s true, of course, what Jean’s telling him (and damn Jean for being right about this, but—). Easier said than done, but it’s true. And he needed to hear it, too.

Thankfully, when they return to their campsite, it’s to find it just as they left it. Which is a relief, because he was really kinda looking forward to finding out how lunch would taste.

He stirs the contents of the pot a few times, for show, then splits what’s in it between two wooden bowls, handing one to Jean.

Jean tilts it back, drinking, and chewing whenever he gets to something that can be chewed. He catches Eren’s eye, and makes a face.

“Could use a little salt,” Jean says, with a grin.

“Oh, right, sorry.” Eren rolls his eyes, laughing. “My bad. I’ll remember to bring a sack of seasoning along next time.”

But for some reason, he doesn’t even mind so much that Jean’s being a smartass. As long as they can sit around this fire together and eat his shitty rabbit stew together… he thinks he can handle Jean’s crappy sense of humor.

✽

_The war drags on and on; a protracted, interminable mess, a never-ending torment. At first he kept a calendar of sorts, scratching marks into the hilt of his sword to keep a count of the days, but he gives it up after a few bad missions, where he loses days or even weeks to healing and wakes up with a gaping hole in his memory where the past ought to be._

_It’s been a long while since he’s had a chance to speak with Armin. He’s always off with command now, doing command-y things. Tactics. Strategy. What he does best. While Eren slums it with the rest of the footsoldiers, because it’s not like you need a weapon until the fighting starts, right?_

_So it’s kind of a rare opportunity, when Armin finds him sitting by the mess tent, people-watching, and decides to join him. It’s where Eren finds himself most days, actually, when he’s off-duty—the hustle and bustle of the camp is pretty good entertainment, as far as these things go, and it’s not like he has anything better to do._

_As usual, Armin looks like he’s ready to drop dead from exhaustion—but then again, so do they all, with their hollow eyes and thousand-yard stares. He hasn’t seen his reflection in a long while, and to be honest, he’s kinda scared of what it might look like by now._

_“So, Eren,” says Armin, by way of greeting, “how are you holding up?”_

_The question is so absurd that it makes him laugh, which is probably what Armin was going for._

_“Not bad… for a limb-regenerating lizard man,” says Eren. “You?”_

_“I’ve been worse,” Armin replies, with a small, tired smile._

_Eren looks out at the grounds, again; catches sight of a familiar mop of ash-brown hair, attached to a green scouting legion cloak. The weird thing is that he’s not even looking for Jean in particular. It just feels like nine times out of ten, he looks up, and Jean’s right there in front of him. Back in their trainee days, Jean might have been sweeping the floor or something, under orders from the captain. Now he’s the one barking out orders to soldiers, pointing, telling them to drop fifty or sweep the damn floor until it’s spotless or whatever it is captains say to recruits when they’re on a power trip. That’s exactly the kind of thing Jean would do, really… the big jerk. And he doesn’t even realize he’s staring until Armin sighs and waves a hand around in front of his face._

_“You’re being obvious, Eren,” says Armin, patiently. “Everyone will know.”_

_“Know? Know_ what _?” Eren demands. His face is so red it’s like it’s caught fire. “There’s—nothing to know. I don’t even know what you’re trying to say.”_

_Armin raises his eyebrows, but apparently decides not to push the matter. Instead he tips his head back a little, tilting the line of his gaze up to the sky._

_“Not much longer now, I think,” he says, slowly._

_“Yeah?” says Eren, pouncing on a topic that isn’t what Armin might know about him and his feelings, and_ particularly _his inability to keep his eyes off Jean._

_Armin nods. “We’ve managed to push them back,” he says. “And our supply chains are much more robust than theirs are. I can’t imagine that they’ve got much fight in them left.” He breathes out slowly, a little shakily. “It will all… be over soon.”_

_The words go in one of Eren’s ears and out the other, leaving no impression of sense along the way._  It will all be over soon _. Meaningless, but something about the way they’re shaped, the way Armin’s mouth moves as he forms them, makes him inexplicably queasy._

_What’s supposed to come after the war?_

_He hasn’t said anything, but Armin goes on anyway. “I’m worried about you, Eren,” he says, frankly. “You’ve seemed—“ he falters for a moment, “—on… edge, lately. And I think maybe we should discuss what you want to do after the—“_

_“What are you, my parents? God, you’re sounding more and more like Mikasa these days,” Eren interrupts, in a too-loud voice that makes a couple of soldiers nearby toss them curious looks._

_“I’m serious, Eren. Your state of mind is very important to the war effort, and I think that establishing concrete plans for the future—“_

_“Worry, worry, worry,” Eren says, and he’s practically shouting now. “Is that all you ever do?”_

_Armin, wincing a little at his volume, and stymied by his stubborn idiocy, just sighs._

_“Okay… fine. If you don’t want to talk about it yet, that’s fine. Just… calm down, Eren.”_

_Eren hates being told to calm down, but for lack of a better response, he merely turns grumpily to stare back out onto the grounds, again. And there Jean is, standing there with clipboard in hands, surrounded by a couple of underlings. Busy, busy, busy._

_How he’s changed, Eren thinks, remembering the sniveling braggart that he got into frequent fist-fights with, back in the day. Not that that’s special or anything, because everyone else has changed, too, in some way or other. Just…_

_It doesn’t have to be a bad thing, he thinks. Because he rather likes the Jean of now._

_So internally focused is he that he barely hears what Armin says next, and isn’t struck by the significance of it until many months later. With fingers folded primly in his lap, Armin follows Eren’s gaze, and says, quiet, and thoughtful, “Well… we’ll cross that bridge when we get there, I suppose.”_

✽

It strikes Eren as hilarious that his horse has managed to carry him through thick and thin, whether that’s battling titans or running for their lives, and made it through all of that okay—but the minute a thunderstorm rolls in, it freaks out, dumps him on his ass and bolts into the woods.

“Shit happens,” Jean tells him, succinctly, hoisting Eren up onto the back of his horse while Eren cusses up a storm. The rain’s coming down harder, now, pelting them with fat, heavy droplets the size of marbles, and one poncho between two people doesn’t exactly constitute adequate coverage. They need to find shelter, and fast.

“Why do I have to ride double with you?” Eren mutters, because he wouldn’t be Eren if he didn’t say something churlish.

Jean snorts. “If you want to walk, be my guest,” he says. “Believe me, this isn’t great for the horse, either.”

He eases his horse into a light canter while Eren wrestles the single poncho over their heads like a tent. He’s getting jolted around a fair bit, though, and it’s kind of hard to cling onto the horse’s sides with just his legs. Still, he clamps his thighs together, praying that he doesn’t fall off again because—well, his tailbone will probably heal just fine, but he doesn’t really feel like going around for an hour with smoke pouring out of his ass.

In the meantime, his hands hover in the air, in the vague way of someone who doesn’t know quite what to do with them, before settling on his knees.

“Just hold on already,” Jean snaps at him, though he doesn’t turn around. “What are you, a girl?” The backs of his ears have gone red again; Eren can see them quite clearly from behind. (Although he wishes he couldn’t, because it makes him blush, too.)

“What the hell does being a girl have to do with this?” Eren wants to know.

“ _Nothing_!”

“Then why the hell did you say it?!”

There’s a moment of silence before Eren breathes, “Oh for fuck’s sake—“ and just goes for it. With exaggerated care, as though Jean is made of glass, he gently eases his arms around Jean’s waist. (For some reason he feels stupidly nervous, and it’s not like he even asked for this  so his nerves can just get the fuck out, thanks.)

But Jean’s back is broad and warm, even through layers of fabric, and he’s just the right height for Eren to press up against him and rest his cheek between Jean’s shoulderblades. Beneath the poncho, the heat of their bodies mingles, and Eren tells himself that’s why his face feels like it’s burning. What’s even weirder is that Jean doesn’t even say anything, because normally by now he’d be bitching and moaning about Eren smothering him or being a nuisance. Instead, nothing. It’s downright  _bizarre_.

—Well, not that he’s going to complain. He squeezes around Jean’s waist, just a little tighter, and closes his eyes. The warmth, the… closeness… it really takes him back. Reminds him a little of something that happened long ago.

Okay, not really all that long ago, but everything that happened during the war feels like that. Like it happened to someone else, and he’s just reading about it now. They’re not memories; they’re just… things that have happened. At least, it helps to think of them that way.

At some point—Eren isn’t quite sure how long it takes, because sitting on the back of that horse, pressed up against Jean’s back, he loses track of time entirely—they come across a little cranny cut into a cliff face; a cave large enough for two, with a convenient overhang for their remaining horse.

(They don’t make eye contact as they dismount, but if Eren’s arms linger a while longer around Jean’s waist than they strictly need to, neither of them mention it.)

✽

_It takes almost a week from the time that they spoke, but now, the end that Armin had predicted is well underway. Fighting breaks out in pockets all over the front, and the scouting legion is stretched as thin as it can go. It’s not as though anyone’s resolve has wavered, but there’s a kind of… sick desperation in it, now, the way they fight. They’ve made it this far, they have; the lucky few, the final survivors, and now each and every one of them is praying that they’ll live to see the end of this day, too._

_He finds Jean during a lull, temporary respite in the midst of madness. He’s fucking exhausted as he slumps against Jean’s back, the two of them resting against each other, holding the other up. He can feel the heat of Jean’s body adjacent to his, or maybe that’s just the steaming heat of titan’s blood evaporating. It’s hard to tell anything apart now when his senses are all muddled, stunned by too much noise, too much violence and death._

_His hands are shaking. All around them, people are dying. Titans are dying. All the same in the end. Take every moment as it comes. He breathes hard, laughs raspily, and manages to spit out, “Bet I’ve killed more than you this time round.”_

_He feels, rather than hears, Jean’s laughter, a deep rumble against his back. “You wish.”_

_“I’m serious!” Eren insists. “I’ve done at least six so far.”_

_“You liar! I was watching you. That last one was an assist.”_

_Eren tries not to focus on the words_  I was watching you _. Instead he says, “Was not.”_

_“I’m a goddamn captain, Jaeger, so don’t you argue with me!” Jean snaps. “Six kills for me and five for you, and that’s going on the official count, it is.”_

_Eren leans his head back against Jean’s, and laughs out loud. It’s kind of sticky; sweat or blood or maybe a mixture of the two. Captain Levi would be disgusted. “Fine. God! You fucking hardass.”_

_Jean’s hand, he notices suddenly, is resting on the ground near his. There’s blood on his fingers, streaked across his palm; whose, he doesn’t know. And for a moment, Eren is seized with the strange desire to take it, squeeze it; thread his fingers through Jean’s, cradle it against his chest and never let go._

_Then the impulse passes. He closes his eyes, permits himself a moment—just a moment—to lean into Jean’s back, enjoying his warmth. It feels good. Feels like coming home._

✽

In the deep of night, a crack of thunder wakes Eren from a riotous dream of the war. He opens his eyes to darkness, the sound of pouring rain, and is briefly disoriented before his mind can place him. Jean’s sleeping bag isn’t big enough for two, so they’re kind of squashed up against each other, blankets and cloaks piled on top to keep the chill out.

“Thunder got you too?” Jean whispers, somewhere in the darkness to his left.

“Yeah,” Eren murmurs.

Everything is quiet for a while; everything except for the storm, that is, which rages on. And Eren, lulled by the sound of the rain, is just about to drift back off to sleep when all of a sudden, Jean speaks.

“I thought…” he starts to say, then stops. Eren blinks his eyes open again, coming awake in time to hear Jean laugh, full of self-loathing. “I thought… it was footsteps. Outside the cave.”

 _Oh_ , Eren thinks.

And when Jean turns his head to look at Eren, it’s like he’s daring him to laugh, but Eren doesn’t think he’s heard anything less funny in his life. He shifts sideways an inch or two, letting his shoulder bump into Jean’s, nudging against him.

Jean makes a quiet noise, then, a mouse-noise, and rolls onto his side, curling inwards to press his forehead into Eren’s shoulder. He’s shaking, trembling like a leaf, tremors that won’t pass with anything but time. (Eren knows them well.)

Outside, the rain comes down, falling and falling, washing away traces of battles, sweeping away all the things that happened to someone else. Just like that, the past seeps into the ground, into the soil, into the earth with the groundwater, and maybe one day, if it’s really lucky or maybe if it just tries hard enough, it’ll reach the ocean—and there, it will finally be free.

The morning brings clear weather and the return of Eren’s horse, somewhat bedraggled, but otherwise okay. He wipes the poor thing down as best as he can, and then leaves his things out to dry, spreading them across rocks and hanging them from trees, humming his mother’s song.

By now, they’re off the map, deep into wilderness that no human has seen for over a century. Still, there’s no time to waste. They break camp around noon, saddling up and riding onwards, following the stream which has been their constant companion for almost ten days now. It widens so gently that neither of them notice until the roar of water filters through to Eren’s consciousness. He looks sideways, to the stream that’s not really a stream so much as a river now, and blinks.

“Say, Jean…” he starts to say.

Jean isn’t paying attention, though; he’s staring off ahead through the trees, between which something golden glitters, dazzling the eyes. And then the tree cover falls away, and then they’re staring at it—at the biggest damn body of water that either of them have ever seen.

Off to his side, he hears Jean mumble  _holy shit_ , but he’s hardly listening anymore. He dismounts, clumsy in his haste, and runs, stumbling, tripping over his own feet until he comes to a halt by the edge of the water, where waves lap lazily at the shore. His first crazy thought is that it’s the ocean, but, well, he can see the trees on the other side, so probably not. It’s a lake, then, but a big one; bigger than the little ponds behind the walls and even the lake they went fishing at that one time.

He flings his arms out wide like he’s trying to embrace the sky, and yells at Jean like a little kid, “Would you look at that?!”

Behind him, he hears Jean chuckle, dryly. He looks back over his shoulder, and sees Jean bringing up his horse by the reins.

“Jeez, don’t just drop your stuff and leave it behind,” Jean tells him, with a small grin.

For almost a second, Eren considers apologizing. Then he remembers himself and says instead, brightly, “That’s what I keep you around for.”

“Oh, is that so?” Jean says, haughtily, swinging himself down from his horse and leading the two animals over to one side to tie them up. “I see how it is.”

“‘slong as we have an understanding,” Eren yells over his shoulder, boots lying in a discarded heap on the shore, already wading into the shallows. The mud feels good squishing between his toes, although he can imagine captain Levi would have a conniption if he could see them now. He turns round to voice this thought to Jean, and gets a face full of water for his troubles.

Jean cackles as he shakes his hands dry, splashing down after Eren with his trousers rolled up to the knee.

“Think fast, Jaeger!” he yells, but in the next moment screams as Eren leaps at him, taking him to the ground. They roll around in the shallows, wrestling with each other, laughing, stirring up the lake bottom until the water around them is cloudy. Suddenly Eren shoves him away and then starts wading himself further down into the lake, far enough that he can dive into the water, leaving nothing but ripples to tell what’s happened to him.

Then he comes flying back out, arms wrapped around himself and running like hell.

“It’s fucking cold!” he yells, while Jean falls over laughing at him.

They spend some time trying to swim in the shallows, but neither of them is very good at it. You wouldn’t think it’d be so hard, but a lack of experience means that neither of them can do much more than paddle around in the shallows. After that, Jean strips his shirt off and tries to rinse the mud out of it, but he never quite manages because every time he tries, Eren tackles him from behind. Eventually he snaps and starts chasing Eren round, trying to whip him with the soggy shirt, now a lovely shade of silt brown. And Eren laughs harder than he has in weeks, in months—maybe even years; laughs until his stomach aches with it, until tears come out of his eyes.

Later in the afternoon, when they’ve completely exhausted themselves, they lie side by side on the shore, dragging toes in the water. The sides of their arms touch, though just barely. Dragonflies buzz lazily over the water, diving in and out of clusters of reeds, and Eren feels the sun on his face, on his skin; a cool, soothing breeze rolling over them once in a while, the water lapping at his shins.

And he wonders: is this what life was like for humans, before the titans came? Is this what life will be like for humans from now on and forevermore?

He can’t quite seem to wrap his mind around it. For so many years, now, each day meant another battle. Every day was a struggle. _Peace_ —that’s the thing he can’t wrap his mind around.

Beside him, Jean shifts a millimeter closer, so their arms touch properly. The bare skin of his upper arm is warm, muscles flexing a little as Jean moves his fingers, brushing them against the back of Eren’s knuckles.

 _Peace_. He tries the word again; savors it in his mind, relishing it. Well… maybe he could get used to this after all.

✽

_The war is over at last._

_He stands atop Wall Maria with Jean by his side, looking out uncomprehendingly at the world that lies beyond. The gently rolling hills on the horizon; distant clusters of trees bowing their dark, leafy heads to the sky. All theirs, now. Not just the scouting legion’s, but all of humanity’s._

_“It’s finally done, huh?” Jean murmurs, bumping their shoulders together._

_Eren… only shrugs. He feels kind of like… like he’s floating on air, or perhaps like his body is made of it. There’s a lightness to his torso, his limbs, as though a great weight has been lifted off his shoulders; as though he’s been free of a burden he’s been carrying for a very, very long time._

_On the other hand… maybe that weight was the thing that was anchoring him to the ground, because now that it’s gone, he feels a little like he’s about to float away._

_A little like he’s losing himself._

_“Y’know,” Jean says, again—pausing for a moment, as though he’s not sure whether it’s wise to voice his thoughts—”you’ve always struck me as the kind of guy who needs a war to fight.”_

_Eren scowls, almost automatically. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”_

_Jean turns his eyes away, sweeping his gaze across the plains, into the distance._

_“Nothing, I guess.”_

_But ‘nothing’ sounds a lot like ‘something’, to Eren, and the only reason why he doesn’t grill Jean about it is because he can’t seem to summon up the willpower to do so. His heart feels hollow, like maybe you could pull it out of his chest and shake it and hear all his feelings rattling around inside. (Maybe, he thinks, he wouldn’t even miss it if it was gone.)_

_The wind howls across the top of the walls, sending their cloaks streaming out behind them, fluttering like flags painted with the wings of freedom. Nestled in an amber sky, the sun creeps lower and lower until it brushes the horizon with blazing fingers. As the light fades, as shadows sweep their chill over the wall—they remain there, gazing uncertainly into the future, into the unknown._

_At length, Jean asks—addressing the sky, as though that might somehow be less offensive, “What will you do now?”_

_Eren doesn’t have an answer for him._

✽

Dinner that evening is roast fish on makeshift skewers, a bounty provided courtesy of the lake. They sit around the fire on fallen logs, munching away happily, bare feet thrown out in front of them. (From this angle, Eren can see streaks of mud on the pale soles of Jean’s feet, and the sight of them makes him smile a little.)

For a while, the only sounds are the crackling of the fire and the slow, steady dripping of his sodden shirt, draped over a branch to dry.

Quite suddenly, Jean says to him, “You know, I can’t say that I don’t miss home.”

Eren looks up, blinking, fish-skewer halfway to his mouth.

“But…” Jean adds. He chews for a little while, then, thoughtful; swallows, then says, “It’s… not so bad, I think. Being out here with you.”

A little surprised, but also kinda pleased, Eren lowers his food, resting his hand on his knee. “Yeah, well,” he mumbles, fidgeting a little. A moment later he clears his throat, and adds, with more resolve, “’m glad it was you that came with me.”

Slightly incredulous, Jean raises his eyebrows. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” This said with a firm nod.

There’s more silence, then. Somewhere in the night, an owl hoots, in preparation for a night’s hunting.

Eren stares into the fire, crunching away at his blackened fish-on-a-stick. He  _is_  glad, really glad. Being with Jean is better than not. That’s one thing he’s sure of now, at least. He may not have much else to hold on to, but he does have that, and he’ll be damned if he lets go of it.

Eventually, Jean nudges him with a foot.

“What’s on your mind?” he prompts. “Kinda freaky when you get all quiet like that.”

“Hm? It’s just—oh.” Eren opens his mouth to answer, and then closes it again, slowly.

He can hardly believe it’s taken him this long to realize—but okay, then again, he’s never been the sharpest blade in the box. This is a pattern they’ve repeated, all the years they’ve known each other; walking the same pathways, running the same damn maze, and in the end always, always finding each other. Whenever he starts to brood, whenever he gets caught up in his own stupid thoughts, there Jean is, telling him to cut that shit out.

Whenever he looks up, Jean is there.

And that’s what he’s needed, all this time. Someone to help snap him out of those funks; who doesn’t let him wallow in shitty self-pity forever. Someone who can challenge him, someone to tell him  _come on, Jaeger, wake the fuck up and quit with the moping, how long are you gonna sit around feeling sorry for yourself?_

Someone to point out that whether all those soldiers died for a reason or whether their deaths were meaningless—well, that’s up to what Eren does from now on, isn’t it?

He laughs out loud, then; the sound of it echoes around the campsite. Jean stares at him.

“What’s funny?” he asks, baffled. And he looks even more weirded out when Eren smiles at him, but hell, that’s okay, it’s okay, it’s all okay.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” says Eren. And he will—he’ll tell Jean tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that; every damn day for the rest of their lives. He’ll tell him the reason they were born into this world; the reason they’re together now. The reason why Eren’s eyes have always followed Jean, lingering on the movements of his fingers as he sews up holes in their cloaks; on his bare, sinewy back as it flexes under the sun, on his shoulders as he chops firewood, on the firelight which flickers across his face as he studies the map, charting their course, leading them into the future. The reason why being with Jean is better than not. Tomorrow… he’ll tell Jean everything.

It will be the first day of the rest of his life.

  


_Anything worth dying for is certainly worth living for._  
— Joseph Heller

 

 

 


End file.
